Sherlock smiled at Robin across the tea table. She was beaming from ear to ear, and despite her repeated assertion that she was only distantly related to the Bridgertons, he had noticed that she looked exactly like her aunt when she smiled like that.
Multiple people had stopped by to congratulate them on their engagement, which Violet had immediately told everyone about. He could see that an enormous weight had been lifted from Robin's shoulders. She had fulfilled a family obligation, and her future was looking bright.
He was suddenly having a hard time believing that he'd ever considered not being a part of it.
Of course, the plan was still for them to separate shortly after their marriage, as far as he knew, so he supposed he should enjoy their time together while they had it. Surely he'd be tired of her companionship by then anyway. There was no point in convincing her to prolong something neither of them would want by the end of the season.
"Try this one," she urged him, holding up one of the cakes they had been served.
He was glad for the interruption to his dour thoughts. The shop he'd brought her to was Enola's favorite, and she was enjoying it too, which made him exceedingly happy.
He leaned forward and opened his mouth teasingly. She raised her eyebrows, then giggled and fed him the cake.
He chewed, nodding his approval at her, winking as he wiped crumbs from his lips with a napkin.
"How would you like to proceed with your case now that I am free to accompany you, Sherlock?" she asked obligingly, selecting another cake.
"I would like you to come with me to Miss Beverley's various residences, Robin," he informed her. "I've been to them already, of course, but I want to see what you think. Perhaps your more expansive knowledge of women might reveal some secret information or hiding places I did not find."
"Well, Sherlock, I'm glad you've so quickly come to see how useful a woman's perspective can be," she replied with mock gravity. "I think that's an excellent plan."
"Speaking of plans," Sherlock continued, "we have to make some. For our marriage."
She nodded. "Yes, we do." She tilted her head to the side thoughtfully. "Do you see yourself living in the city or the country, Sherlock? I assume the city, considering your work."
It wasn't exactly the question he had expected, but he was willing to follow where she led. "Actually, I prefer living in the country. When I am working, the proximity of my flat is generally optimal, but as you know, my cases can take me anywhere, so that's not always true."
"So where do you see yourself settling?"
He shrugged. "I hadn't thought much about it until recently. Mycroft and I both live in the city, and the estate was always meant for my mother and sister. Now that's not the case, but it technically belongs to Mycroft, and I never thought to ask for it."
She lowered her voice and leaned forward. "I know we talked about living separately, Sherlock, but if you would like, we could renovate a wing of Norland for you. I would stay out of your way whenever you desired it. But I want you to be comfortable, and I don't want you to have to buy your own estate just because you think we can't live together in peace. Unless you want your own estate, of course," she finished, biting her lip nervously.
He chuckled and reached out to grab her hand, squeezing it gently. Despite his earlier assurances to himself that he would tire of her, her suggestion of living together in her vast estate, which hadn't occurred to him, wasn't an entirely unpleasant one.
"I think there might be some merit to that idea," he admitted softly.
She brightened again. "I don't want you to think I am disillusioned about what we are to each other, Sherlock. But some proximity would be useful for your work, and if it ever became necessary for us to have children. I wouldn't want them to not know their father, especially when he is so extraordinary. And I hope we will always be friends, as we've previously stated."
"We will be," he reassured her, his brow furrowing at the thought of children.
That was a duty he was still quite certain he didn't want to take on, but they would cross that bridge when they came to it. At the very least, he knew she wouldn't force the issue. The decision was his.
They finished their cakes quickly after that. They had an appointment at the modiste, and neither of them wanted to be late.
Sherlock looked around apprehensively as they stepped inside. This was not a place he was used to being at all. As the owner, Madame Delacroix, greeted them and invited them into the back to suggest items for Robin's trousseau, Sherlock leaned over and whispered in her ear.
"What is in a trousseau?"
She laughed. "It's just a fancy word for a lady's wardrobe. It's traditional for a woman to get a collection of new clothing when she marries. Especially some of the, well." She blushed, then murmured, "Some of the more intimate items a husband will see."
He blushed along with her. "Oh. Should I, uh, not look?"
"I'm just being measured, Sherlock, and deciding which items I want. Not trying anything on." She glanced at him. "I don't plan to get much, anyway. I hardly need new nightdresses, since we're not going to bed together. I don't want to spend your money on unnecessary things."
He glanced back at her and shook his head curtly. "No. My wife will get everything a woman requires in her trousseau," he decided. "Besides, as you said, we must keep up appearances."
The comment thrilled and stung at the same time, but she pushed both feelings aside. This was simply hero worship on her part, she'd realized. He was famous, she idolized him, and he was marrying her. It was bound to be confusing at first, but she knew her place, and she was going to stay firmly in it.
"If you insist, Sherlock," she finally gave in demurely.
"I do, Robin."
Madame Delacroix, who had disappeared briefly to grab some samples, returned just then. Sherlock turned to her and smiled. "A full trousseau for my bride, please, Madame Delacroix."
She grinned happily. "Of course, Mr. Holmes. Miss Ballard, I believe I have your correct measurements from when your aunt bought you a dress several weeks ago, but I would like to verify them."
Robin nodded, obediently standing on the slightly raised platform on the floor and holding out her arms so Madame Delacroix could measure her.
Sherlock watched, swallowing and slightly adjusting his cravat as he watched the tape wrap around, then underneath, her breasts, and then her hips, just above her very shapely bottom.
He felt his body reacting to what she had once jokingly called her exquisite form. It was only slightly, but it was something he had never felt before. It was rather pleasurable, really, he found, but he still tried to stop the thoughts.
Feelings weren't part of their agreement. Besides, he was sure they were temporary. Just a brief infatuation on his part, likely because he had never been close to a woman before.
And, as he was continually reminded, she was extraordinary. It was natural for him to be muddled about everything.
Soon they would both go back to more familiar lives. When that happened and they were merely friends, with no obligation to be quite as close to each other anymore, surely his strange impulses would recede.
"You'll need chemises," Madame Delacroix began, "and corsets, at least one of each. One short, one long."
"Ugh," Robin muttered. "I hate corsets."
Madame Delacroix laughed. "Most women do." The front door opened and she stood. "Excuse me for a moment, yes?"
Robin nodded, staying where she was. Sherlock, who was still taller than her even though she was standing on the dais, bent until his lips were next to her ear.
"Enola says corsets are very good for stopping knives," he confessed conspiratorially.
Robin's eyes widened in surprise. "Well, I'll remember that if I'm ever about to get stabbed. Which is hopefully never. Truthfully, I don't wear corsets at home, even out in the village. I just stitch my dresses in such a way that it gives me more support."
"I'm sure you're even more lovely the way you prefer, Robin."
She rolled her eyes at him affectionately. "Your skill at flattery is improving, Sherlock."
"It's easy to flatter you," he countered. "I just have to tell the truth."
She shook her head at him, but she was smiling as Madame Delacroix returned.
"Where were we? Oh, yes. You'll need petticoats, light for summer, heavy for winter. I have some lovely flannel for the latter. And stockings with garters. And then dresses. I'll have you select some fabrics for both morning and afternoon dresses. Your traveling dresses should be heavier. More flannel, I think, covered in dark green velvet. It's not the most popular color at the moment, but you'll wear it well. I recommend two in case of long journeys."
She produced several swatches pinned to heavy sheets of felt. "These are muslin," she explained, pointing to one page, "and these are cotton."
"I have several muslin dresses and they are highly impractical." Robin gestured to what she was wearing. "I prefer cotton. It's sturdier, and more easily washed."
Madame Delacroix laughed. "What are you doing that requires something sturdier, miss?"
Robin's cheeks colored self-consciously and she glanced down quickly. Sherlock realized that her reaction must have something to do with all of the work she mentioned having to do at her estate. Muslin surely wasn't the best fabric for that sort of activity, but she'd have to wear something respectable in case someone came to call.
"We are going to be out frequently, Madame Delacroix," he answered. "As you know, I am a detective, and Miss Ballard is going to be assisting me on cases."
"Ah, I see. Well, I have many lovely patterns in the cotton. These are my most popular at the moment. Pick as many as you'd like."
Robin glanced at Sherlock and smiled softly at him in thanks. He nodded and turned his head to study the sheet. "I like this one."
He pointed to the pattern with darker pink flowers and blueberries on a white background. "So do I," Robin agreed. "And, um, these."
He studied the blue and purple flowers with gold accents on a black background and another that looked like peacock feathers fanning out over each other and nodded.
"What about this one?" Madame Delacroix suggested.
Robin immediately shook her head. "No. No red."
Sherlock chuckled. She had looked beautiful in red, but it was clear that she didn't like it, so he deferred to her opinion.
"How many more would you like to choose?" Madame Delacroix moved on.
Robin shook her head again. "Surely three dresses is enough," she protested.
"What about several more in solid colors?" he prodded her. "The light green, this light blue, and..." He pointed to the brown. "That matches your eyes perfectly."
"Six dresses, Sherlock?" she whispered urgently, trying to dissuade him.
"Yes," he decided. "Six."
"Do you require a riding habit, Miss Ballard?" Madame Delacroix asked.
"No. I don't own any horses."
Sherlock let that one slide. If she wanted horses later, he could get her some, along with the necessary habit.
"Very well. You'll need a hooded cloak and two shawls, I think, one that's heavy cashmere and one that's light silk. Two spencers and one pelisse should do."
"What are those?" Sherlock murmured.
"Jackets," Robin replied as Madame Delacroix collected accessories. "A spencer is short. A pelisse is long."
She came back to them. "Gloves. A muff. Gray, I think, would be best. Bonnets and hats."
"No bonnets and hats," Robin told her. "I can't stand them."
Madame Delacroix wrinkled her nose in disapproval, but didn't argue. "And shoes, of course."
"Simple and sturdy, please, except for a pair of indoor slippers. Nothing extravagant."
"And, finally, an evening dress," she breathed, her eyes sparkling. "I suggest it also be your wedding dress."
"I hardly need a separate wedding dress," Robin argued immediately. "That's just unnecessary."
"But you will be getting married in London, no? With the whole ton in attendance? Your fiancé is a very famous man, my dear. You should make a spectacle. Please, just look at my design. This is a sample, of course. Yours would be made just for you."
"I..." Robin began again, the words dying on her lips as Madame Delacroix held up a sample gown.
It was made of pristine light pink satin, with an overlay of white muslin threaded through with silver. It was absolutely stunning, even hanging limply in the dressmaker's arms, and Sherlock knew it would be even more beautiful on Robin.
She was clearly tongue-tied. He knew she was feeling guilty about wanting the dress, but he could see how much she did in her eyes.
And he wanted her to have it. She deserved something beautiful. Even if her marriage wasn't real, her wedding dress should be.
"We'll take it," he informed Madame Delacroix, gently cupping Robin's elbow in his palm as she looked at him in distress. "I want you to have it," he said sincerely.
"It's all too much," she disagreed, tears suddenly glistening in her eyes.
"It's not too much, Robin. You only get married once," he pointed out.
She took a deep breath and composed herself. "I suppose you're right," she relented.
Madame Delacroix artfully ignored their private exchange. "I will have it ready for you as soon as I can, Mr. Holmes, Miss Ballard. Congratulations on your engagement."
"Thank you, Madame Delacroix," Sherlock bid her farewell, taking Robin's arm and leading her back outside. "Are you all right?" he inquired quietly.
"You were just... far too generous, Sherlock. I don't need most of those things."
"I know." He didn't, actually. He was fairly certain she did need most of those things. Getting by didn't mean she had enough. But he was smart enough not to say that to her. "But I wanted to give them to you. So stop fussing."
She snorted. "You can't make me."
He quirked an eyebrow. "Isn't that my privilege now, since I am soon to be your husband?"
Her head whipped to the side to see if he was serious. When she saw his smirk, she rolled her eyes and he burst out laughing.
"Would you like to know something that might cheer you up, Robin?" he questioned once he was finished laughing.
"What's that?"
"I do not believe Madame Delacroix is actually French," he revealed.
Robin giggled. "No, she's not. Some of us have noticed, but no one cares. She still makes the best dresses in town. Come," she said haughtily, changing the subject and steering him down the street. "I made an appointment for you too."
"For me?"
"Yes. At the tailor. You need some new suits that aren't such drab colors."
His brow furrowed. "What's wrong with my suits?"
"In case you haven't noticed, the ton is all about fashion. You always look like you're going to a funeral. A little flare in your appearance will make them far more amiable."
He only contemplated arguing for a moment. "Fine, fine," he grumbled. "You know the ton better than me."
"I so enjoy hearing you say that," she mused, grinning up at him.
He shook his head at her as they entered the tailor's. Soon he found himself in the same situation she had been in previously, standing on a dais and being measured.
The tailor kept frowning as he wrote down the measurements, though he didn't say anything beyond mumbling about needing yards of extra material. Robin took over when the time came for fabric selection.
"For the suits, two dark blue. It will bring out your eyes," she explained. "And to be bold, one dark green and one burgundy. The black, gray, and brown ones you have already are perfectly serviceable. You just need to accent them correctly."
She studied the next set of patterned fabrics more seriously. "Waistcoats. All silk in front. Two brocade, one silver, one blue. Two damask, one black, one red. And two striped, one gold, one green."
She turned to him. "Wear the colored vests with your old suits. It will render them more suitable."
He smiled at her. "I will," he promised. "Thank you."
After they were finished, he escorted her back to her home, holding her arm the whole way.
"I think you scandalized that tailor," she joked. "With your broad shoulders and big arms."
She poked him teasingly and he smiled, blushing deeply. "I stay in shape for my cases. Often, I must lift heavy items out of the way, or fight someone. I like to be prepared."
"I like it," she assured him. "You're quite dashing. Well," she corrected herself, "when you're not talking."
He laughed loudly and shook his head. "I'll be downright humble by the time we're married," he observed.
"Someone should keep you humble," she retorted, smirking up at him.
They arrived at her door and she turned to face him. "Thank you, Sherlock. I had a positively lovely day."
"As did I, Robin. I shall see you again tomorrow."
She nodded, inhaling sharply when he bent and kissed her cheek.
"Your aunt is watching from the front window," he whispered.
"Oh."
She knew the gesture had only been for show. Even if her aunt hadn't been looking, they had to seem as though they meant more to each other than they really did.
She would get used to it over time. All she had to do was let her initial feelings fade, and they would fall into a stability that would likely not be particularly exciting, but would be safe.
She allowed herself one moment, though, once she was inside, to touch her cheek and briefly imagine that he had kissed her because he wanted to, and not because he had to.
Outside, he walked down the street, idly tracing his lips with his finger. He had wanted to kiss her, so he had.
He was dreaming that she had wanted him to kiss her too.